


this day is gone

by impulserun



Series: age of miracles [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulserun/pseuds/impulserun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my god,” says Enjolras, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on? Who are you?”</p><p>----</p><p>In which Captain America and the Winter Soldier are confused, Courfeyrac freaks out, and Cosette asks herself why she puts up with these people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is a blond in his bed.

Or, he supposes, he is in a blond’s bed, for his surroundings are unfamiliar. The room is large enough, to be sure, and decorated with art pieces. Portraits in charcoal, paint, graphite. There is even a landscape or two.

There are knives on the bedside table.

Good.

The wall on the far end of the room is one large glass panel – below, the city. He does not recognise the skyline. Yet.

But there are more important matters at hand; the blond.

He has placed himself, he realises, between the blond and the door. He must be important to him.

As he watches the other man’s chest rise and fall, traces the gentle curve of his lips with his eyes, smooths his hair back from his peaceful face, he thinks he may understand why.

*

The door opens and he’s on his feet in a flash, back to his blond, metal arm whirring.

“Enj,” a voice – English, feminine, low, husky, American accent, is this where he is? – says, “Enj, you lazy ass, did you sleep through your alarm? We have a mission briefing – _fuck!_ ”

Talya – it’s Talya – older than he’s ever seen her – but Talya all the same – she dodged the knives, they’re embedded in the wall –

He’s losing time again –

“R?” she says – hair is brown, eyes are grey, everything like he remembers except her age, “R, it’s me –”

“Don’t hurt him,” he interrupts. “Talya, I don’t care what your mission is, _I won’t let you hurt him_ –”

Tense silence.

Talya watches him warily, then raises her hands. A peace gesture.

“Nikolai,” said like a question, not a statement.

“Talya,” he replies. “You’ve grown.”

“I’m not going to hurt the Captain,” says Talya, the Captain being his blond – a spark of pride lodges deep in his chest – meant for great things – he knows this, always has, even if he doesn’t remember – “We work together, Nikolai. I’m on your side.”

“You know I can’t trust anyone in this line of work.”

A stalemate. He has more knives. Talya is probably armed to her teeth. But –

But –

Talya knows this. He is creative, when he needs to be. And this – his blond, his captain – is important.

He won’t let himself fall without a fight.

Someone shifts behind him. The blond stirs.

“Enjolras,” Talya sighs, relieved – _Enjolras_ , _ange_ , _enjol_ , so that is his captain’s name – “Enjolras, thank god, tell him I mean no harm. He won’t believe me, otherwise.”

“Oh my god,” says Enjolras, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

*

“So what is this?” demands Courfeyrac, slamming his hands on the table. “AIM? HYDRA? Is this a science thing? JAVERT, look up all known cases of science-induced amnesia, I will fix this thing and _thrash_ the assholes who did it so help me –”

“At once, sir,” comes JAVERT’s dry response.

“Episodic memory,” Combeferre muses out loud. “We don’t know about Enj, but Grantaire definitely retained enough of his skillset to throw those knives, and they’ve retained the use of whatever languages they learnt before _this_ , so it seems only their episodic memory was wiped.”

“Didn’t quite take for R, did it?” Eponine smiles, slow and sharp and just on the side of bitter.

“By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense,” Combeferre agrees. He sets down the mug in his hands and starts to pace the room.

“Doesn’t matter,” Courfeyrac insists, his fingers flying across his tablets. “If it’s a science-thing, Ferre and I can fix it.”

“It may not be a science-thing,” Eponine says slowly. “It might – we may have to call in Bahorel.”

Courfeyrac recoils, staring at her with utmost betrayal brimming in his eyes, and generally looking as if Eponine had just cursed out his grandmother.

“No, I understand,” Combeferre sighs. “Whatever this is, it was precise enough to specifically target their room out of all the floors in the tower, but not enough to hit Grantaire alone. So it’s specific, but messy. We – we should call him in.”

“Traitor,” huffs Courfeyrac.

*

Bahorel answers their distress beacon by burning another Bifrost pattern into Courfeyrac’s helipad.  

“Friend Courfeyrac!” he crows, beaming in his weird beardy way. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Is there a battle to be won? Or perhaps a feast?” he adds hopefully. “I find I have grown fond of Midgardian cuisine.”

“We can arrange for the latter, big guy,” he promises, “but we have a little problem to take care of first.”

 Eponine takes the reins then, filling Bahorel in on their little predicament.

“I am more versed in combat magic, myself,” he answers, frowning. “But I do know of somebody who may be of service.”

(That’s two more Bifrost patterns. Two. Bahorel has no respect for lawn maintenance. Courfeyrac wonders if he can charge Asgard for destruction of private property.)

He returns with another, significantly less beardy Asgardian. The newcomer’s face is clean, and an intricate crow mask covers the top half of their face. Their armour and clothing are – when compared to Bahorel’s at least – androgynous, and their brown hair is long and braided in the Asgardian style.

Montparnasse takes one look at them before diving for his bow and quiver.

“It’s them!” he splutters, springing back to his feet and hip-checking Eponine off the back of the sofa. “Le Cabuc!”

“Le Cabuc?”

Eponine’s stunner bracelets come alive with crackles of electricity. “They were on Loki’s side in New York,” she explains tersely.

Courfeyrac yelps and tugs at his wrist, and in an instant his watch has transformed into a gauntlet, the repulsor set in its palm already whirring to life. “You come into my house!” he squawks, moving to cover Combeferre. “You _eat my food_!”

Le Cabuc regards them, summarily unimpressed.

“I much prefer Claquesous,” they say, settling into an armchair. “And subterfuge is not a concept unknown to Asgardians. While I may have fought at Loki’s side at the Battle of New York, I am as much a vassal to the Allfather as any of my shield-brothers. The _term,_ I believe,” they sniff, “is _double agent_.”

“I can vouch for their loyalty,” Bahorel adds solemnly. “Their intelligence was vital in aiding my lords Thor and Heimdall in pinpointing Loki’s location before the Battle of New York. We are brethren in all but blood.”

“I still don’t trust them,” Montparnasse grumbles.

“That is fair,” they allow, throwing a braid over their shoulder. “Good strategy. Now, where are the patients I am to attend to?”

*

“How are they more disgusting _without_ their memories than with?” whispers Courfeyrac, horrified.

Nikolai and Ange – Enjolras had found himself uncomfortable with his real name, for some reason or other, so they had settled for a nickname instead – are cuddling on their sofa, ensconced within a fortress of pillows and blankets. JAVERT informs them that Nikolai has been regaling his companion with tales of his time in Mother Russia.

“It must be nice, to remember where you’re from,” Ange muses, sipping at the cup of tea in his hands. “I wish I could return the favour.”

“Your name sounds French enough; perhaps you are _Parisien_ – but no,” he amends, “your native tongue is English, as far as we can tell. Little matter; once we are fixed you may tell me then, and we can visit your hometown together.”

“That would be nice.” The blond smiles, bashfully, then glances up at Nikolai through his eyelashes in a blatant display of flirting. “Thank you, Kolya.”

 _Kolya_ , mouths Courfeyrac. _Kolya_.

Claquesous watches the proceedings with an impassive look on their face.

“Bahorel,” they say at last, “did you even take one look at the spellwork before coming to me? Quite frankly, I am insulted.”

Bahorel offers them a charming grin. “I was never one to stay awake in school. It _is_ as simple as it looks, then?”

One of these days, Courfeyrac is going to hunt down a magic user who speaks proper Earth English, and he is going to develop glasses that can pick up ‘spellwork’ or ‘energy traces’. He is going to do it for science, and also because he hates being kept out of the loop. It’s right up there on the list, with being handed things, and nosy reporters asking him about what he saw in the skies above New York. _He doesn’t fucking remember._

Until then, however –

“For the benefit of us mortals who _don’t_ have magic vision?”

“Their memories have not been _wiped_ ,” Bahorel explains. “It appears to be a simple blocking spell, as far as I can see.”

“It is a rudimentary enchantment at best, even by Midgardian standards,” Claquesous sniffs. “Messy spellwork, and the caster probably botched the incantation. I predict that it’ll wear off in a week or so, but until then they should refrain from coming into contact with any magical artefacts.”

“You mean it’s temporary?”

“It should be.” Claquesous eyes Courfeyrac, who really has no idea why these people seem to hate him, and is honestly feeling so attacked right now. “You’d best ensure it remains that way.”

“So we wait the week out, and what, they’ll be hunky dory?”

“Or so.” Claquesous sniffs, turning to Bahorel. “I would appreciate more of a challenge the next time you pull such a stunt.”

Bahorel smiles. It’s a charming and roguish thing. Somewhere out there, in the world beyond the confines of the Tower, hordes of fangirls and fanboys and fanpeople – fans, _fans_ , he should have gone with fans – are swooning. “How else would I ever get you to leave Asgard?”

( _Another_ fucking Bifrost thing, really? Courfeyrac is going to sue.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Thor still exist in this verse, b/c i'm super iffy about outright replacing characters based on gods you feel me? So Bahorel is a representative from Asgard who helps out around Midgard with minor scuffles. Thor only really gets involved when Loki's up to no good or it's Dark World levels of Nine Realms bullshit. 
> 
> ~~writing asgardians is so hard you guys~~


	2. Chapter 2

“Tell me about your hometown again,” Ange requests. They’re out on the balcony today for a change, though they’re still being monitored by JAVERT. The change in scenery is much appreciated, as is the fresh air.

“ _Again_ , solnishka?” There’s a teasing light in Nikolai’s eyes. “There are other things I can do with my mouth, you know, if you’d like a demonstration.”

“I like your voice,” he says simply, not bothering to hide his blush. They still share a bed at night, despite the unused bedroom on their floor – little point in feigning modesty _now_.

Nikolai smiles – a warm, fully-fledged smile that crinkles his nose and melts the ice about his eyes – and begins, softly, to talk. “I grew up in a little town in Siberia. Well – I say _town_ , but it was more of a – a village, I think, is the word. A small place – my neighbours reared chickens, I think, and we barely had enough to feed ourselves, most of the time, but – it was a life.”

He closes his eyes for a while, tilts his head back just enough for the sun to catch in his hair. The light casts his face in shadow, but Ange knows Nikolai by heart, now. The soft blue of his eyes, his cheekbones, the stubble that dots his chin.

“The thing I remember best,” he says at last, “is the taste of my mother’s cooking. When it was too cold to work the farm, my mother would cook her special stroganoff. Mushrooms, mostly. Beef, once, when the cow died.” Nikolai allows himself another smile. “It always tasted like home.”

They sit in silence as the sun dips beyond the horizon, as the sky begins to bruise and the winds begin to howl.

Nikolai notices when Ange begins to shiver. He bundles him into his jacket and ushers him indoors.

*

“I don’t like the look of things,” Montparnasse mutters.

None of them do. An attack on the Winter Soldier’s memory could only mean one thing, and a parallel attack on Captain America – the perpetrators must have sought to render Enjolras disoriented and defenceless, and to revert Grantaire to –

“Just as well that Grantaire has more than one set of memories rattling around his head.” Eponine smirks. “The perp obviously doesn’t know how the Red Room works. Or used to.”

At present, they are huddled around a whiteboard in the middle of an Avengers Tower conference room. _Episodic memory_ and _limited access_ are written on it, as is _TEMPORARY_ (underlined thrice, with a little happy-crying face below it) and a list of possible suspects. _~~~***MAGIC***~~~_ is circled in red.

Ex-Red Room gets crossed off the list.

“It’s not AIM,” says Courfeyrac, drawing a black line through the acronym on the whiteboard. “Science and tech are more their thing. Their massive egos wouldn’t let them consider magic as an option.”

Eponine coughs, and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “pot”. He chooses sagely to ignore her.

“Using the Winter Soldier _and_ magic?” Combeferre laughs drily, and takes his glasses off, scratching absentmindedly at his temple with one end of the frame. “This all sounds like it’s right up HYDRA’s purview.”

Courfeyrac points an accusatory finger at him. “Enjolras is turning you into a conspiracy theorist.”

“I’m just saying, it fits their M.O. to a tee. The work they did in World War II, the experiment logs we found in that base in Calcutta – for all we know, this could be a splinter cell trying to retrieve their greatest asset.”  

“Little Miss Muffet here dumped HYDRA files on the Internet, remember? It’s encrypted, but it’s up there.”

“ _Who_ would even go to all that trouble –”

“Someone with experience and a lot of time on their hands.” Montparnasse exhales unsteadily. “So it’s either HYDRA or some other unaffiliated whack job. Can’t say either option is looking particularly pleasant right now.”

“We need to focus on defence first. They might storm the tower while Enj and R are still neutralised.” Eponine leans back in her chair. “I’ll call up Cosette. We need as much manpower as we can get. In the event of an attack, we focus all our efforts on defending Enjolras and Grantaire’s floor. Nikolai can fight, but – it won’t be pretty.”

“Code Green?” asks Combeferre, calmly polishing his glasses.

“No,” Courfeyrac interjects, “you’ll be our last line of defence. If we’re attacked, you go straight to Enjolras and Grantaire.”

*

When Ange wakes the next morning, Nikolai is still asleep. It’s an uncommon occurrence – Nikolai is usually up at the break of dawn, and watching him sleep, most days.

(Ange frowns. Something niggles at the back of his thoughts. How does he know this? His memory stretches back only a few days. Yet he knows in his bones that Nikolai watches over him in his sleep, sometimes with his chest to his back for warmth, or a hand over his chest to check his heartbeat. Not that Ange remembers ever having trouble with his lungs.)

The lines on his face are smoothened out by sleep. Like this, Nikolai looks almost peaceful, in the way he does when he speaks of home and his mother’s stroganoff. _Good_ , he thinks suddenly, vindictively. Nikolai deserves it. He deserves every single moment of peace he can get, and then some.

(Maybe the enchantment is wearing off. Maybe he is turning back into Enjolras. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.)

*

There’s a soft ‘ping’, and the lift doors whir open to reveal a petite Asian girl, her features distinctly Chinese save for the slight Western slant to her eyes. Her black hair falls freely past her shoulders today, but Ange remembers it in a – bun? He thinks? He has no idea where these memories are coming from.

“Hey, I’m Cosette. I work with you, sometimes.” Here she grins and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “But mostly we come up with new ways to bother Courfeyrac together.”

“I like you,” says Nikolai. Cosette’s grin widens.

“Anyway, you forgot about me, and no one told me to come down and say hi. Just because I live in DC? Not even a text?” Pouting, Cosette flops down onto their sofa. “Can you believe this? Our friends are the worst.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Ange agrees, lips quirking.

“They think because they distract us with food and television we do not notice that they are keeping us captive here,” Nikolai confides. “We are only here because we want to be. Courfeyrac’s security system is not as sound as he thinks it is.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Cosette mutters, shaking her head. “I’d break you out and take you on a tour of the city, but Courf has my wings hostage right now, so I have to play by his rules. Back to business – the others think there might be some HYDRA hostiles out there waiting to launch an attack on the tower – they kind of have a grudge against the both of you – which is why I’m here. And why they’ve kept you locked up here, apparently. Did Courf tell you _anything_?”

“That we’ve lost our memories,” says Ange, dry.

“That we’re on the same side,” Nikolai continues.

“We can have whatever ‘take-out’ we want, as long as JAVERT can find it in his records,” Ange adds.

They look at each other, turn back to Cosette and shrug in tandem.

Cosette lets her head fall forward into her hands.

“ _Why are white people so stupid_ ,” she groans, grinding the heels of her palms into her eyes.

*

JAVERT informs them that Cosette is busy shouting Courfeyrac down in his workroom when Tal – Eponine comes click-clacking through the door.

“I thought I’d come apologise on Courfeyrac’s behalf,” she says, shucking off her heels. “I did tell him not to underestimate you, seeing as I trained with you and all, but he just wants you to be safe.”

Nikolai snorts, shaking his head. “Americans.”

Standing, he stretches his arms above his head. Inactivity doesn’t suit his nature much. He remembers a childhood spent chasing the neighbours’ chickens back into their pen when their own son was ill – and almost every other day he’d helped them fuss over little blond Vitya, trying to keep him alive through the winter.

Vitya had passed before the war even began, he remembers. There had been very little time for softness, after.

Then he had woken up in bed with Ange. It felt like a second chance. Like coming home.

Nikolai yawns, and stretches again. He doesn’t miss the way Ange’s eyes flick over his body before darting back to stare fixedly at the coffee table, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“You know,” Eponine suggests, “there _is_ a gym in the tower. A training floor, to be precise.”

Nikolai sees the suggestion for the olive branch she means it to be.

“I know you, Nikolai,” she says, amused. “Remember St. Petersburg?”

“I remember you taking too long to neutralise your target,” he says loftily. “As the superior agent on the mission, I made a judgment call.”

Eponine scoffs; for a second the look that flickers over her face is almost childish. “I was five minutes away from getting the intel I needed when you blew his brains out, you impatient butt.”

Ange huffs out a tiny laugh, then schools his features into something resembling repentance.

“C’mon,” she says, “we could spar, just the two of us. Just like the good old days. I’ve learnt a trick or two since the time you remember me last.”

He smirks. “Maybe that will finally level the playing field.”

Eponine smiles. She turns to Ange. “Ange, you coming with?”

“No,” he says, softly. “I think I’d like to stay here. Thank you, Eponine.”

*

Alone in the quiet of their now-empty apartment, Ange finally lets himself relax.

There’s a strange filter of déjà vu over everything that he does now – the spell is wearing off, or will be soon, and maybe the only reason Ange is affected so is because he has no real memories to speak of, no real memories to call his own.

He thinks of Nikolai. He thinks of his too-rare smiles that barely reach his eyes. He thinks of the expression of quiet awe and longing that sometimes flickers over his face, when he thinks Ange isn’t paying attention. He thinks of Nikolai’s stories, and comes to a decision.

“JAVERT? Can I get your help with something?”

*

They are both bleeding when Nikolai and Eponine finally leave the gym.

(From surface wounds. They’re only scratches. Eponine’s archer suitor had been watching them from the rafters the entire time, giving Nikolai the stink-eye.)

He leaves Eponine in the elevator feeling more settled in his skin. It is not the violence that calms him, though he had feared so before. He still does, occasionally, when he is left alone with his thoughts for too long. His protégé knows him well.

Nikolai stops in the bathroom for a quick shower, then ducks into their bedroom for a change of clothes. Ange is not there – neither is he in the living room. He contemplates asking JAVERT for help, but dismisses the thought.

“Ange?” he calls instead, wiping his face with a towel. “Ange, I have returned –”

“I’m in the kitchen,” comes the reply.

Warm cooking smells waft in his direction as he enters.

Ange is hovering between the sink and the dining table, cheeks stained pink. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

In front of him, on the table, sits a pot of cooling soup. Nikolai breathes in, suddenly unsteady

“You made stroganoff.”

“JAVERT helped.” He offers a weak smile. “I know it won’t be the same as your mother’s recipe, but – you’re always – helping. You’re always – grounding me. Helping me find my centre. And I wanted – I wanted you to know that I’d do the same for you, too.”

“You already do.” Nikolai crosses the room in three large steps to pull Ange into a hug. He buries his nose in his hair – the clean, soft scent of shampoo and sweat tickles his nostrils. “You anchor me,” he continues, voice rough. “Just by being here, you anchor me.”

Ange relaxes ever so slightly into his arms. Then he buries his face in the hollow of his neck, burrowing into the hug. He is still blushing when he pulls away and they settle down for their meal.

*

They’re in their kitchen, still smiling at each other over the pot of still-warm stroganoff, when the lights abruptly switch over to red and a warning siren blares throughout the building.

“My apologies,” says JAVERT. “Some intruders seem to have gotten past my security systems. Rest assured that Master Courfeyrac and the rest of the Avengers are working to resolve the issue. Dr. Combeferre is on his way to your location, in the meantime.”  

“Well,” says Nikolai, “at least we have the soup.”


End file.
